


repentance

by psylocke



Series: atonement [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, M/M, Post-Timeskip (Fire Emblem: Three Houses)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-09-07 10:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20308078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psylocke/pseuds/psylocke
Summary: the evening before the army makes its move, felix seeks guidance from above. sylvain just happens to be there too.contains minor spoilers for the post-timeskip story, particularly the blue lion route, but nothing too detailed.





	1. Chapter 1

only the pale blue light of the wyvern moon above illuminates the cathedral tonight. felix made sure the monks had all left for the evening before slipping inside, the ancient doors creaking slightly at his touch. the hole in the ceiling — one of the few lingering memories of the battle of garreg mach — allowing the moonlight to hit the ground at the perfect angle. the remaining rubble stone stopping his progress a few steps away from the half-surviving altar.

he runs a single gold piece between his fingers, anything to keep them busy without letting them rest upon the hilt of his sword. on the second pass back to his ring finger, he slips — and the coin clatters to the ground, disturbing the holy tranquility fallen over what is usually such a lively place.

felix winces, body frozen in place, as though his presence in the deserted room had been somehow discovered. he _knows_ he’s alone — he had been there earlier, watching dimitri stew in silence. the brooding boar didn’t move for hours, giving him time to stake out the church. everyone was gone for the night, dreaming of morning’s march upon enbarr.

once certain nobody has come to check on the sound, he crouches to pick the gold up once more, tossing it into the donation box placed at his feet. a paltry tithe, perhaps, but even being here twice in one day is out of his element. the goddess certainly understands the sacrifices already being made. if her divine work can make prayer from a non-believer, that should be support enough.

his jaw clenches firmly, looking at what remains of the statue of the goddess buried in the empire’s attack upon this place five years ago. her non-distinct face staring right back, with cold and untrusting eyes that unsettle his spirit. what little resolve he already possessed dwindling further, leaving nothing but a scared little boy with nowhere left to turn.

lowering his gaze, his eyes close — the deprivation of those senses enhancing what few remain. the whistle of the night wind and the chill breeze that creeps in through the drafty stone walls. the smell of incense no longer burning, but extinguished recently enough that it still hangs in the air, mingling with stale colognes and perfumes.

he recognizes one as dimitri’s.

as he inhales, his lungs burn in a way they never have before. ice forms in his throat and a chill nurses down his spine. another sign of the goddess, a faerghus cold to remind him of the world he so long ago left behind. a ghost lingering too long in a holy place. the church once more rejecting the lost lamb seeking comfort.

“i know you don’t want me here,” he whispers, steeling himself as his teeth gnash together enough to hurt. “but i have nowhere else to go.” 

⛊

there’s only one thing worse than being locked in the cathedral all night, and that’s being locked in the cathedral all night without someone in your lap. sylvain regrets the bet with every fibre of his being, even hours after going along with it. where do the townies get off doubting his bravery, anyway? he fought in the battle of garreg mach, against monsters, and the empire, and his own brother—!

if he had any sense, he would’ve left hours ago. before the last of the priests filed out for the night. taken a detour through the officer’s academy instead of stopping first in town, laying low, and returning come morning to pretend like he’d done it. but the realization comes to him a little too late, not long before hearing the heavy double doors push open and footsteps, quiet as they are, began to echo through the halls.

not wanting to explain himself to anyone pious enough to visit the cathedral after hours, he instead leaned his back against the wall next to the statue of saint cethleann and settled in for a long, lonely night. it doesn’t last long, however, between the drop of copper and the growing wind, the silence is soon broken by a combative prayer spoken aloud, a direct challenge to the goddess herself.

felix’s voice is the last one he expects to hear, but the sound of it sets his chest on fire.

sylvain knows better than to announce his presence now — felix will cause a scene, accuse him of terrible things, and they likely won’t speak for weeks. (those arguments are only fun when he gets to instigate them, after all — not talking to felix is different than felix not talking to him. one is significantly less lonely.) so instead he sits, and tries to distract himself enough in the dark to not hone in on the sound of his best friend’s voice, but it’s impossible not to. in the silence, it’s everything.

“—and you’re the only person who can help me.” felix’s voice falters after that, once more falling into silence. sylvain, curious, foolish, _worried_, quietly drags himself along the floor to edge closer to the doorway, trying to peek out into the flush of blue light — but all he sees is silhouette, the bowed head of his friend, the slight tremble in his palms.

he swallows back and pushes away. when he lands on his seat, he plugs his ears — it’s still not enough. as quiet as he’s speaking, felix’s voice is the only thing he can focus on. even when he doesn’t want to.

the whisper grows a little louder — not _confident_, but the composure returns. “i know my request doesn’t mean much to you. i’ve known that since duscur. but even if _i_ don’t, i know _they_ do. dimitri. ingrid. sylvain. i need you to keep them safe. tomorrow. and monday. and in the battles beyond.” felix quiets and sylvain narrows his eyes. “i’ll do my best to keep them safe, but i’m only one person. i can only do so much. but you—”

he hears felix step forward, foot nudging the plate of offerings and clattering the coins inside. the voice that follows is one sylvain knows all too well, the unmitigated ire most commonly directed at him. the veil of the threat, one he knows deep down is cushioned with concern, but until this moment, he had never noticed the _hurt_.

“you broke your promise with me before, with glenn. this is your opportunity to make up for it.” 

⛊

each word coats felix’s lungs in more snow, makes each breath harder to take. but he’s made his peace, and when the chill doesn’t subside, he takes it as a sign. like before, his prayers go not only unanswered, but unwelcome. he tries to answer the cold with fire of his own — a burning in his gut, an anger he has channeled since he was young, tried to tamp down.

but for all that fire, all that rage, he only finds himself growing colder, until the tips of his fingers are numb and tingling and instinct takes over. he lets out a grunt as his hands reach unprompted for the sword affixed to his hip, and he slashes at the rubble laid out at his feet. he feels iron bend under his strength, the stone breaking from the pile to fall further to the ground. felix sees nothing but ice, soft blue light that obscures his vision as water stings the corners of his eyes.

and then a touch —

a grab at his wrist, catching him off guard. startled, he panics and takes the blade in his left hand to stab the assailant holding his right. he hears a hitched breath, a yelp of pain, and the touch loosens. finally graced with a target that bleeds, rather than the faceless marble of a goddess long dead, the fire spreads: his wrist, up his arm, through his heart, until it’s coursing in his veins. sothis’ frost long melted, his vision returns, and he sees sylvain doubled over at his side, holding a cut to his stomach.

“felix—” he grunts, looking up. even injured, there’s that insufferable sparkle in his eye. “sharp as ever.”

it takes a moment before he realizes what he’s done. the blade clatters to the ground and his palm presses down on sylvain’s hand, applying more pressure to the cut. “sylvain, i—” he begins, and the conflict of emotion begins. “i didn’t mean to, i didn’t realize, i— _were you spying on me_?”

“guilty,” he hisses. “mind if we focus on this first, though? really don’t want to die in the cathedral.”

“you’re not going to die,” he answers in equally as low a tone, shifting sylain’s touch for him to check the wound. “i barely scraped your side. it might not even need stitches. manuela’s probably out tonight—_fuck_. just… sit down. i’ll go grab something to help.”

without thinking, for all the good that’s done felix tonight, he slowly lowers sylvain to the ground, leaning him up against some of the fallen rubble, before racing off — wiping a stain of blood on the side of his tunic before it can dry on his hand. his feet don’t stop until he reaches the supply cupboard, tucked just enough out of the way to be out of the pilgrim’s sight, hand slick as he tugs upon the padlock on the door. three pulls and it still refuses to break, but the fourth somehow snaps the iron.

sothis works in strange ways.

there isn’t much in the way of supplies, but tending to the sick and needy is a core tenet of the church. cloth bandages are always on hand, and felix finds something of a makeshift medical kit, perhaps something left behind by the infirmary’s clinic days. he rushes back to felix’s side, heartbeat matching his step and shaking his entire body as his foot hits the floor.

he drops everything unceremoniously, crouching down and quickly falling forward onto his knees. his hand pulls at sylvain’s, urgently putting him through the motions. “you need to take your shirt off.”

“stop flirting with me,” is his reply, unaffected as ever — the dramatics of before long gone. despite it, he raises his arms so felix can pull it off and set it down in his lap.

with only the moonlight to guide him, he gauges the severity of the injury. “just enough to the side to not hit anything important. you’re _lucky_,” he says, doing his best to let his gaze rise to meet sylvain’s. he’s positive that he isn’t ready for that yet. “but it’s a deep cut. i’m going to have to stitch it, i think. how do you feel?”

“top of the world. room’s spinning, the goddess is smiling down on me. you got me shirtless…”

felix ignores the bulk of it. “what were you even doing here at this hour?”

“i could ask you the same question.”

felix opens the medical kit and thumbs through to see what he’s got at his disposal. “you were spying on me,” he points out. “so you already know. you don’t have to pretend.”

“i didn’t—” he begins, but sylvain trails off, slumping slightly to one side. “i never thought to ask why you stopped going to services. i don’t even think i noticed the timing.”

only then does he realize sylvain is looking at him, a chance glanced up bringing their eyes together. felix busies himself to avoid looking for too long, finding a bottle of rubbing alcohol, half empty, and a cloth. “you never notice anything,” he deadpans. “this is going to hurt.”

“that’s not—” once again sylvain is cut off, this time by a wince and a whimper, his body seizing up as the sting overtakes every faculty remaining to him. for all the battles they’ve fought together, for all the wounds and scrapes they’ve both taken, felix has never heard his friend make a sound like that. “_fuck_, that hurts. don’t.”

try as he might to scoot away out of his reach, sylvain can’t quite make it. felix’s arm follows, pulling him forward to try and keep sylvain in place. he looks up again, annoyed and desperate, and the light hits bright enough for him to make out the profile of the other’s face, the stain of a tear streaking down his cheek. “just a little longer, i promise,” felix whispers, in place of what he was going to say. the kinder of the two solutions. “i’m sorry.”

silence lingers a while longer as sylvain squeezes his eyes shut and more tears begin to stream down his cheeks. “for what? stabbing me? yeah, i’d hope so.” only when felix’s hand pulls away does he straighten up, and his eyes open again, and he wipes at his cheek with a bloodstained palm, leaving an even more noticeable mark. “sometimes i wonder why i bother with you, felix. you’re mean to me. you don’t seem to like me very much. then you go and ask the goddess to protect me and _stab_ me not a minute later.”

apt as the criticism may be, felix doesn’t internalize. he sets the cloth down and takes the needle and thread. his fingers fumble with the bottle, a lifetime of swordsmanship giving him stellar dexterity and nimbleness, but tasks like these always fluster — worse when it’s his friend on the receiving end of it. “i apologize,” he repeats, a little more insistently now, trying to thread the needle in the dark.

“it’s not always enough.”

he looks up again, and sylvain looks at him with disappointment plain on his face. even in the dark, felix can register that much. “i wasn’t myself. had i been—”

this time, sylvain cuts him off. “you were acting like dimitri,” he says. “the same thing you’ve spent the past decade condemning. acting instead of thinking, violence without reason. you were swinging your blade at the _goddess_. what’s gotten into you?”

once more the important questions go ignored, deliberate and quiet in his words. “do you want me to stitch you up or no?” he asks, tying the thread. sylvain nods and affirms with a quiet hum, so felix — without warning — gets to work.

he watches sylvain steel himself, body tensing up and jaw clenching tight. his hands both ball into fists and his eyes squeeze shut, barely breathing as the needle pierces, and the slow reconstruction begins. not a word is spoken between them until felix finds a small knife to slice off the dregs of the thread, lowering his shaking hand into his lap.

sylvain finally exhales, and reaches for the bandage. “you know,” he finally whispers, “i don’t deserve half of how you treat me. i’ve done nothing to hurt you, but you take every conversation like an attack on your character. _literally,_ this time.”

“i told you already, you startled me. this wasn’t about you.”

“it’s never about me,” sylvain notes. “it’s always about you. you want to act like you’re better than dimitri because you can keep your emotions in check on the battlefield, but what about the rest of the time? the things you say hurt worse than being on the business end of your blade. i can say that with experience, now.”

felix tenses. “stop making jokes about it. i’ve apologized. it was an accident.”

it’s in that moment sylvain snaps. “no,” he says — and at first, it’s nothing. but the word echoes quietly around the empty cathedral, resonating with the walls. “i’m tired of being your training dummy. i want my friend back. i want somebody who actually _gives a shit_ about me.”

and it’s in that moment felix realizes. “you don’t think i care about you?” he asks back, voice raising — sylvain’s statement was quiet in its power, but force is the language felix speaks. “you’re the only damned person in this place i can stand. i can’t look dimitri or ingrid in the eye, because i’ll never be him. i care about them, sylvain, but i’m trying to atone for the loss of someone who i can never — _will_ never — be.”

“felix—”

but he continues. “i want them to be safe because i can’t deal with the guilt of not being able to protect them. but i _need_ you to be safe because i don’t think i can live without you.”

by the time he realizes what he’s said, he also realizes he can never take it back. felix tries to push himself off the ground but sylvain is even faster than him, and the fist forms around his collar before he’s out of reach, pulled back to his knees at his best friend’s side. “nine years,” sylvain whispers. neither is quite looking at the other, gazes pulled to chins and lips, shoulders and collarbones.

“what?” felix asks when no elaboration comes.

“nine years i’ve wanted to hear you say that.” his chin tilts and, briefly, their gazes meet but felix lowers his in response. “nine years i wanted you to let me in and help you. nine years i lost because you’re so stubborn you can’t even see me when i’m staring you right in the face.”

felix looks up. true to his word, there’s sylvain. pain in his eyes — hurt that felix never realized he caused. “sylvain, i—”

the hand taken hold of him pulls felix in further. there’s a fleeting moment when they are apart, but for an eternity thereafter together. sylvain’s lips find felix, and the resistance lasts only a second as he struggles to realize what’s happening. hands, shaken and bloodied, come to cup sylvain’s cheeks and tether him down. the kiss breaks with an ouch as sylvain lets go to find where he’s bleeding, and felix falls back to stare dumbfounded, forward, vision blurry.

“i know,” sylvain promises. “you don’t have to say it. i know.”

there are few words that hold any power over felix — a man of action, emotion, viscera. but he finds these ones difficult to string together, individually or apart. they’re inherently selfish, focusing on _his_ feelings in a way he refuses to. removing any room to breathe. forcing the play of a hand in a game that, truth be told, he doesn’t know the rules to. and despite every dissenting thought passing through his mind in that moment, he drowns out the voices and says them anyway. “i love you.”

and when he hears them, sylvain leans back against the rubble and leans his head as far as it will go. the moon shines bright overhead, the perch of a stern white owl looking down at them from the hole in the ceiling. “i know you do,” he answers. “it’s just nice of you to finally acknowledge it. i love you too. i have for a long time.”

felix goes quiet, tongue running over his lips. he shifts backward, turning to lean against the rubble, a couple of inches space between them. every ounce of energy he has is drained from him, stolen by the incubus to his left. he takes a sharp breath, closing his eyes and letting the tension loosen in his muscles. it isn’t long before he feels a touch at his shoulder, sylvain’s head tilted to now rest upon him. “what now?” felix asks him, scarcely able to hear himself.

“we have a few hours before anyone gets here,” he answers. “how about we make up for lost time?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was unsure if i would write this, but the reception to the first chapter made me happy. i envision one more chapter after this, to tie it all together, but i'm not sure when i'll be able to write it. i also told a friend that if this fic got 25 kudos, i would write some smut. so, needless to say that will be coming soon, but i'll be posting it as a separate fic so that i don't have to spring a rating change on anyone. stay tuned! and thank you for reading!

it’s three days before felix speaks to sylvain again. evidently, they have wildly different ideas on the meaning of _making up for lost time._

after the first day passes, sylvain considers approaching him but thinks better of it. on the second, he very nearly does. by the third, he’s given up entirely. the pair of them don’t even make eye contact as they stand next to one another in the dinner line, but felix makes a show of letting mercedes and annette cut _behind_ him in line, if only to put some distance between them. 

enbarr is only another day’s ride away, and the bulk of the army grows restless. dimitri’s speech to the soldiers is tempered by the professor’s quiet guidance — little touches to his sleeve as soon as he begins to unfurl, and that alone is enough to reign in the wild boar. as sylvain watches, he can’t help but let the twinge of jealousy coursing through him. after the conversation in the cathedral, that was supposed to be _him_. 

it was supposed to be _them._

so sylvain distracts himself the only way he knows how — he slips away from his monitoring post in the middle of the night. there’s a town just over the hill where the church of seiros has made camp. the territory, deep in the heart of bergliez territory, is neutral at best. after the seizing of fort merceus, much of the soldiers scattered, and the townspeople declared loyalty to the church once more — even _relief_ that they were no longer bargaining chips in the war. 

a tavern, that’s all he needs. and a drink. and someone pretty in his lap. he knows even so simple a request is too much for ask during times of war, but he’s willing to push his luck tonight. 

stripped down from his armour, sylvain wears a simple brown tunic and slacks, keeps a small sword fastened to his hip, and messies his hair. the last thing he wants to resemble is a soldier. mercenary is okay, but nothing so formal. once he’s sure his roguish charm is in full effect, he slips ashe twenty gold pieces to keep his mouth shut and heads for the gates. 

the red wolf moon overhead is blanketed by clouds, leaving the night unceremoniously dark. wind howls with a biting chill that somehow puts faerghus cold to shame. in all his time spent at the officer’s academy, sylvain never noticed just how cold it gets this far south. he wishes he’d thought to bring his coat, but that would’ve given him away in an instant. his shirt has some insulation with arctic pelts to reinforce, but not enough and not where it counts. 

from the hilltop overlooking the town, he sees the warm and inviting light of a tavern glowing just inside the gates. the door is open, and a young couple steals out of the bar with held hands and a kiss. his smile is small — genuine but pained, casting his eyes downward to avoid watching the couple tug at one another’s hands before one leads the other off into the night. 

“evening,” he says when he reaches the door, getting a salute from the guard standing sentinel outside. the gate opens without a word, granting him entry to the town. more importantly, protecting him from some of the biting wind. the walls aren’t nearly so high as fort merceus’ were, but they’re still impressive. it was a wonder they even managed to take this little outpost, let alone half the empire. 

he carries the thought for too long, starts thinking about the battles to come. each step becomes one closer to his downfall, the distraction overpowering each of his other senses. the smell of food from the tavern and the warm glow of its hearth fade in and out of his memory, guided by an unseen force just far enough off the path to be dangerous. 

sylvain doesn’t realize he’s surrounded until he feels the blade pressed at his back.  


  
⛊

  


he’s in love with an idiot. 

there are very few things that felix knows he cannot change. he knows that no matter how hard he trains, byleth will always best him in a swordfight. he knows he can never see his father’s face again without seeing the grief he carries. he knows, without question, sylvain will always do the absolute most. and that, without fail, he will always come running to his rescue. 

“the damned kingdom thinks they can come rub dirt in the wounds,” one of the attacker sniffs — a boy, barely older than eighteen, his voice weighed down by the horror of war. his fist cracks against the back to sylvain’s skull to stagger him, sending him forward into the wall between the tavern and the general store. 

just outside of the main street running through the down, more of the soldier’s buddies wait with weapons drawn. faces unobscured, each one as young as the last — just a few years younger than sylvain and himself, but what a difference five years makes. their armour looks new, strangely unblemished, but their weapons look worn down. militia fighters, then. maybe protecting the town while the soldiers go off to war. 

felix looks over his shoulder and realizes, earlier than sylvain had, that they’d _both_ wandered into the trap. behind him, the gate guard steps inside, watching intently his supposed prey. felix smirks, and his hand reaches for the blade at his side. seeing this, the guard draws his axe, but felix is far quicker on the up-take: his off-hand pulls up and flames dance around his palm. as he unsheathes his sword, he strikes the would-be attacker with magic, and the town square illuminates suddenly. 

it extinguishes just as quickly. 

to his credit, sylvain pulls his sword as soon as he comes back to his senses, but even without the world spinning around him he’s not cut out to be a swordmaster. felix moves smoothly as a stream, cutting down the doorman before any retribution can be made. with four enemies around him, sylvain is too slow and bulky to pick his targets. he hits hard, but clumsy, and without the heft of his lance on both ends he leaves himself wide open to counterattacks. 

he _also_ hasn’t yet noticed that he’s not fighting alone. after dispatching his own attacker, felix rushes to his friend’s side. the sudden movement catches sylvain off guard, raising his sword to fend off the newcomer, only to freeze up and falter when he sees who it is coming to his rescue. “fe—” 

“shut up and watch your back,” are the first words felix says to him in three days, and each one stings his throat. once more lacing his lungs with biting ice. before sylvain can respond, felix positions himself to intercept a blade aiming for his side. metal strikes metal instead of flesh and he leverages his weight to push the imperial soldier away. “what the hell do you think you’re doing, coming out here alone?” 

sylvain pivots, missing the first strike but parrying the second, his back pressing up against felix’s. both of their breathing stops for that split second — two against three, standing in the middle of an enemy city with none of their supplies and nobody but ashe knowing sylvain has even left the camp. 

“my favourite odds,” sylvain finally whispers. he presses back, just enough pressure to make sure felix knows he’s there, and felix feels him exhale. he does so in kind, letting the ice spread from his lungs through his veins. 

the only heat he feels comes from the burn of magic in his fingertips, once more creating a small flame in his palm, building up as he waits for sylvain to make the first move. “you didn’t answer my question,” he notes. “you could’ve gotten yourself killed.” 

“at least it’s not you stabbing me this time.” felix can see the grin on his face without needing to turn around. but for all his bravado, he knows his timing. he gives felix a gentle nudge to the side just moments before saying “_now!_”, giving them a split-second edge on their opponents. 

felix takes two at once, quicker and defter in close quarters. he uses the threat of magic, rather than the spell itself, to keep one at bay, holding the line so he doesn’t close in on sylvain while his back is turned. he doesn’t risk a look over his shoulder, relying on the symphony of steel to tell him when sylvain needs his help. 

that clanging breaks for all of a second, and the heat of sylvain’s body is no longer at his back. worried, felix allows himself a moment of weakness. he’ll regret it if he doesn’t. time stalls for him as he checks, realizing it’s not sylvain who’s gone down, but the world doesn’t slow down for him. he turns back a second too late, his opponent taking advantage of the opening and cutting a gash down his arm. 

sylvain is there — not in time, but soon enough. before an injury can turn into a wound. he doesn’t come at the imperial soldier with his sword, but with his fists. a crack to the jaw so close to felix’s ear that he can hear the snap of bone. something about the savagery of the attack catches the attention of the last soldier still on his feet, stepping back rather than chance a lucky strike on either of them. “take him home,” sylvain says, in a voice colder than felix has ever heard him use. it’s hollow. closer to the tone he remembers from when they were children. “don’t throw your lives away over this.” 

the following moments are made silently, the imperial militia scrambling to see if their friends are still alive — felix knows they are. sylvain is brash, but he’s not going to kill children. even if they struck the first blow. it isn’t until they’ve all stumbled away that felix realizes he’s bleeding, guard finally lowered enough to take stock of himself, rather than the placement of weapons and footwork. 

as silent as the rest, sylvain puts a hand on felix’s shoulder — the one not currently sliced open, already inspecting. “you’ll be fine,” he says quietly. “let’s take you back to manuela. healed up in a—” 

instinct overtakes felix. anger, frozen fury. every drop of concern and worry is crystallized into rage that shatters the diamond around his heart, and felix lashes out. both his hands squeeze around sylvain’s tunic, so hard that his arms tremble as he pushes sylvain back, ramming him into the wall of the tavern. the music inside stops for a second before righting itself, the world carrying on despite their intrusion. 

“felix, i—” 

the pressure doesn’t lighten up, even when felix tilts his chin to make eye contact and he sees the fear in sylvain’s eyes. it’s another one of those things he cannot change — that glacial creep towards dimitri’s methods, the blank, unyielding gaze on the battlefield. and now it’s turned to his best friend. no. more than that, he’s always been more. “_what the hell is wrong with you?_” he hisses, biting back more words, harsher words, ones that he won’t be able to take back. “wandering off into an enemy town, no back-up. do you have a death wish, sylvain? or are you just that stupid?” 

sylvain goes limp in his grasp. “yeah. that’s me, right? big _fucking_ dumbass, can’t even see an ambush coming when it’s staring him in the face.” 

“you don’t get to martyr yourself here. not now.” even with no resistance, felix’s grasp doesn’t let up. he can’t afford to, sylvain’s body already so tenuous in his grasp. his left arm sears in pain, but he grits through it. “otherwise, you should’ve let those children kill you.” 

“maybe they would’ve if you hadn’t swooped in to save the day.” his voice slowly rights itself, not quite back to normal but back to deflecting. either with humour or bravado, depending on which way the wind is blowing. “but you wouldn’t let that happen, would you? tell me you can’t live without me and then ignore me for half a week. but it’s fine. watching me from afar? totally fine.” 

felix’s response is cut short by a twitch in his arm, the fist loosening and his hold on sylvain weakening enough that his friend fumbles forward, not expecting the support on his frame to fall so suddenly. 

“you’re bleeding,” sylvain continues, squinting as he gets in close. his hands, invasive as ever, roll up felix’s sleeve. he releases an audible hiss. “this is worse than it looks. i think that sword might’ve been coated in something. can you make a fist?” he tries again — he makes one, but it doesn’t fully close without strain, and the strain doesn’t come without hurt. “shit. come on. we need to get back.” 

reluctant as felix is to agree, he lets himself be helped.  


  
⛊

  


he’s in love with a wildfire. no — a _tempest_. 

felix is the coming storm, all of the fury of the sky and the earth creating a singular force of nature. beyond beautiful and terrible, he is destructive and consuming. since the day they made, over twenty years ago now, sylvain has known about this side of his friend. but he’s never witnessed it from the eye of the storm. 

there is a calm to this unhinged fury, a detachment that scares him more than the rage itself. it’s safest here, in the eye, but only for fleeting seconds before it turns on you. now he’s become the target, rather than the outlet. harsh words and criticism he can handle, but the bored _hatred_ he felt cut deeper than the stab wound. 

sylvain cannot bring himself to look at felix as they crawl out of the town, leaving behind his promised evening of revelry and drink. faced with the reality of losing felix because of his own carelessness, he forces his thoughts to drift elsewhere. he thinks of how good an ale would’ve tasted, rather than the iron of blood in his mouth. he thinks of warm comfort and company, without judgement, without feeling. 

“i’m sorry,” he says, words slipping out without thinking, an unconscionably long silence preceding it — and one equally drawn out that follows. were felix not walking himself, even with sylvain’s support, he might’ve thought he’d passed out. no reply, no derision, just a wall of ice. “i was upset, you know? you hadn’t spoken to me in so long, after all that, i — i was worried i pushed you away.” 

“you’re an idiot, sylvain,” he growls. felix tenses his step, hitching his breath. the camp is just ahead, but the last thing he wants is to cause a scene. sylvain shifts his weight, hand on felix’s hip, guiding him with every step. “i need some time to—” another grit of teeth, another growl as he pushes down whatever’s hurting him. “—_figure things out_, and you run off to chase down the first imperial barmaid you can find?” 

“i wasn’t thinking.” 

“no,” felix snaps. “you weren’t.” 

“but you were ignoring me. what was i supposed to do?” 

“wait.” they stop abruptly, sylvain misinterpreting the statement as a command. “i meant for me. it was just a few days. i told you i wasn’t — i don’t know how—” 

for a second he thinks it’s a pause for thought, but he feels the weight go out from under him. sylvain just barely catches felix before he hits the ground, both of them collapsed to their knees in the span of a blink. he’s stunned into uncharacteristic silence until he realizes felix isn’t moving, and he does the only thing he can without letting felix down. “_ashe!_” he calls, voice shaking. “ashe, anybody, somebody get manuela! please!”  


  
⛊

  


the next hour passes in a blur, voices speaking to sylvain without him fully listening. between ashe’s arrival and their shared effort in carrying felix to the infirmary tent, manuela and flayn doing everything in their arsenal to help, and the steady stream of visitors asking what had happened met with nothing but sylvain’s blank expression, he remembers next to none of it. 

at some point, somebody slung a blanket over his shoulders and forced him to sit down. when he finally snaps back to reality, there’s a cold mug of tea in his hands, half-drunk, and a plate of food beginning to be beset by ants. the tent is dark, even with the fire visible through the held-open door, seeing only felix laid out softly breathing on a cot and — just beyond him — manuela speaking quietly to a silhouette that resembles the professor. 

they notice him stir and the conversation ends, with byleth giving him a stiff nod before stepping out. it leaves manuela, hands clasped at her stomach, to slowly turn back in his direction. “you’re lucky you were there. any longer and he might not have made it.” her voice is soft, dragging slightly on the vowels. “but how did it happen, i wonder? there were no monster sightings, and—” 

“it was my fault,” he says quickly, conscience burning. “he took a hit that was meant for me.” 

even in the dark, he knows that she’s scrutinizing him with everything she’s got. “in any case,” she continues after a pause. “he should be fine. we’ve administered the antitoxin. mercedes should be arriving soon to keep an eye on him so that i can go back to sleep. which is advice i am giving _you_ as well, sylvain. free of charge.” 

he shakes his head. “i’ll stay here, if that’s alright.” 

her sigh betrays the small smile she makes, beginning to turn away. “suit yourself. we’re reaching enbarr by sundown tomorrow. you should try and sleep as much as you can. might not have another opportunity to before we take the city.” 

“i know. thank you.” he doesn’t wait for her to leave before he scoots closer, the cot low to the ground. felix looks so peaceful lying there, chest slowly rising and falling, his breath catching on his tongue. without thinking, he reaches up to curl his fingers around felix’s, not conscious enough to resist, even if his hold is limp in return. 

manuela stops just short of the parted flap door, turning slowly back in his direction. “listen,” she offers, tentative and quiet. “i know you didn’t ask for my advice, but — the two of you need to be more careful or else one of you is going to get hurt.” sylvain straightens his back, tense, a knot in his throat, but she continues. “between this and the incident in the cathedral, people are going to start thinking you’re looking for trouble. there’s bigger things at stake here than getting into fights. even if we think we can win them.” 

his eyes closed, relieved. “yeah,” he mumbles. “thanks manuela.” 

“sure,” she says. “get some rest. he’ll be okay. doctor’s orders.” 

this time, he waits for her to leave before squeezing felix’s hand. his eyes close, his heart rate slows, and for the briefest of moments he wonders if he’s fallen asleep as the rest of the world simply falls by the wayside. but he’s brought back when he feels felix squeezing back.  


  
⛊

  


consciousness comes later than morning does, the sun already high overhead when felix’s strength returns to his body. his eyes open slower than usual, energy dipping, not immediately aware of his surroundings. he hears sylvain’s snores before realizing he’s not alone, entire body jerking in surprise. 

he sits up, instinctively reaching for his sword — but his dominant hand is pinned down by another, and his sword is not at his side. panic overwhelms him, even as his brain insists that the person holding his hand isn’t a threat to him. the movements are still discordant enough to stir sylvain awake, having fallen asleep upright, head slouched forward, drool dribbling down his chin. 

“what are you— where am—?” felix begins, firmly pulling their hands apart. that motion is all sylvain needs to snap to consciousness. “the sun— the army— did they go without me?” 

“us,” sylvain corrects quietly, squinting out at the camp beyond the open flaps. the sun is high overhead, turning the infirmary tent into a sauna, and the ever-present crowd seems to have disbanded, though all the structures still stand. “i think they left us both behind.” 

ignoring him, whether intentionally or not, felix pushes off the bed in a bid to get to his feet. “we need to join them,” he says — but barely two steps away and he crumples forward. this time, sylvain isn’t quite enough to catch him as he takes a hard knee to the ground. 

he hurries to felix’s side but his own feet give out, and the pair become a huddled mass on the ground. “you can’t, you’re not strong enough.” each word is punctured by felix trying to get back to his feet, sylvain taking him by the wrist to keep him down. “felix, please, you almost died last night, you—” 

“i _know,_” he spits. a venom is present in his voice that isn’t usually there. the tempest turns on him now. “better me than you. better me than the boar. he can’t do this without me. they need me. i need—” 

applying a touch of pressure to felix’s wrist, sylvain wrenches him back down. despite the struggle, he’s too weak to fight it, too weak to stand. “no, fe. they don’t need you, not right now. not like this.” 

like a caged animal, felix lashes out — he tries to use sylvain as leverage to stand, a guttural grunt that channels what little strength he has, as if it will make it manifest, but it’s all for naught. “what good am i then?” he finally cries, through gritted teeth and tears welling in his eyes. “if i can’t protect him? if i can’t protect _you_? i need to get to him, sylvain.” 

“and what about me?” sylvain asks, voice breaking. “you can’t even beat _me_ in a fight right now. let alone edelgard and the imperial army. dimitri will be fine. he has dedue, and ingrid, and the professor, and…” 

the struggle stops, if only for a moment. “and?” 

“and you’re all i have,” he concludes. “and all that i want. and what _i_ need is for you to stop trying to get yourself killed. it’s not going to bring him back. it’s not going to give you any peace of mind.” 

felix goes rigid, head turning away. “easy for you to say. you walked right into an ambush last night. this is your _fault_.” 

exhaling, sylvain tries to clear his mind. “i know it is, and that’s why i’m trying to take responsibility for it. for _you._” his hand lowers, no longer on felix’s wrist, but cupping over the back of his hand. “you told me the other day you don’t think you could live without me, but i _know_ that i can’t live without you, felix. and i almost saw that come to pass last night.” 

no response, just felix’s body going from stiff to limp, leaning slightly into sylvain’s touch. 

“so please. listen to me. just this once, i know what i’m talking about.” 

his stray hand rises to touch felix’s shoulder, curling into the matted shirt he wears, fingers curling into the fabric and pulling him in even closer. no longer fighting it, felix’s head tilts to the side, resting on sylvain’s shoulder. after a moment, he lets himself fall to the ground, not quite sitting in his best friend’s lap, but as close as he could get to it. 

“i’m sorry,” felix whispers. 

“i know,” sylvain answers, brushing a hair out of felix’s face before pressing a kiss to his forehead, lips held against the warmth of his skin. “and, you know, it wouldn’t kill you to say it a little more often.”


End file.
